“I’m here. And you, too. We’re going to be fine, I promise, I’ll never leave you again, I…”
“Leo, they took everything,” Clio said from behind them. Leo looked up and saw her, her hair tousled, her cheek dark from a large bruise. In the light of her torch, the rest of the Mill’s people was snuggling up like terrified hens. Toad couldn’t put one of his hooves down, but he shook his large head and snorted.
“What happened?” Leo asked. She knew the answer already.
Da took her hand and guided her away from the ruins of their home.
“Soldiers,” he whispered. In his eyes, Leo saw the echo of the old nightmare coming to life again.
Chapter 5
The blood wouldn’t come off his hands. No matter how hard he scrubbed, how insensitive his fingers turned into the cold stream: he could still see the dark red lines under his fingernails, the crimson stains on his wrists.
Crouched in the leaves, he panted as he rubbed his palms on his skin. The calluses were hard, but not enough to brush him clean. Never enough.
He could still feel them. Bodies piled above him, a bloated eye pressing against his cheek, cold and slimy. The stench--rotting flesh and burning wood. Everywhere.
Muttering under his breath, he inhaled deeply. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his hair was sticky, and he couldn’t get rid of the blood.
When he dipped his hands in the cold water again, he shivered.
He stopped, looking at his fingers under the surface. Thick, pale things, stained in dirt. Black. Not red.
Not blood.
Evandro blinked hard and fast, squeezing his eyes until the world around him shed the relics of his dream.
There were no corpses. He was alone, as he’d been for the past eight years. A hermit in the woods, dressed in hides and roughspun fabric, not in the velvets and steel of his uniform. His skin was covered in scratches and insect bites, bruised by a life spent in the wilderness hunting like a beast. No sword cuts or bullet wounds. Of those, only the pale scar on his shoulder and the pink circle on his thigh remained.
Taking a long, shivering breath, Evandro sat back on his haunches and ran his hand down his face, grimacing when he pulled at the tangles in his beard.
Why were those nightmares back? It had been months since the last vision of failure and death. For the first weeks after the Spring Slaughter, Eliodoro had visited him every single night. His eyes judged him--I asked you to save my family, and you abandoned them. Where’s Ligeia? Where’s my child?--and he turned his back on him, walking away until all that remained was the corpse pit Evandro had woken up into.
Not dead. Painfully alive.
Now, though? It’d been years, and he’d reached some form of peace. The past was in the past, and he was a knight no more. Not even the memory of glory remained, only the mourn for those he’d lost. They were gone, and the Dawn Star had set, never to rise again.
Evandro splashed some water on his face and stood up. His poor belongings took only a corner of the small clearing he called home: a bundle of thick covers, his fireplace, a small pot hanging from a tripod. His clothes and belt hung from a tree, and his thick hunting knife protruded from a crude sheath. Among the jutting roots, a makeshift bow, a length of rope and nothing more.
This was his life now. One he’d chosen, fit for someone beyond redemption.
And yet the dreams continued to plague him.
His arms were covered in goosebumps despite the warm summer morning, and he frowned as he laced up his trousers.
They were gone, nightmares and memories. As is my king. That’s for the best: he wouldn’t like this new version of me.
Only after he’d rolled his tattered sleeves up to his elbows did he feel like himself again. And as such, he stopped to think.
The woods were quiet. For someone as used to the wild as he was, this was not a good sign: this early in the morning the birds usually chattered loudly amongst the trees, and this silence was haunting.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply--and he almost choked on thin air.
Smoke. Distant, feeble, but unmistakable for someone who’d grown used to using his senses like any animal.
Evandro took his head in his hands and tried to focus.
This is just the lingering effect of my dreams.
But his words sounded false to his ears the moment they formed in his mind.
He tried to relax and dropped his arms, breathing in the scent of the forest.
No, it was not in his mind only. The smoke was everywhere, faint where the wind carried it away, stronger from where he stood, upwind.
But why? It made no sense. This part of the Epidalian forest was of little interest for the woodcutters, the ground too steep to make for a decent hunting ground, and in the lower side of the hills too damp and tricky for the proximity of the rivers and bogs. A perfect place to disappear for a dishonored fallen knight.
A bubble of something forgotten grew in his chest. Curiosity, something he hadn’t experienced in years. He corrected himself out of habit: no, not curiosity, it was just caution. If there were people around, he’d rather avoid them. Or at least not have them discover him bundled among the bushes.
Someone was burning his woods, and since these were his only source of food and shelter, he was well in his right to go and see what was causing such a commotion.
He slung the bow across his chest and secured the knife in its rough scabbard. Slowly, even the last memory of Eliodoro's hurt look faded. A nightmare, that was all it had been, summoned by the smoke. Not a vision, just memories resurfacing against his will. Nothing to ruminate on.
He packed his covers and supplies in a tight bundle and threw it over his shoulders. After he’d kicked some dirt above the cold fireplace, he looked around: it was as if nobody had ever set foot in the clearing.
A dry smile tugged at his lips.
A ghost leaves no traces.
He set off without a destination in mind. This was his standard procedure: stay for some weeks in a place, then pack up and leave to find a decent place to hunt and fall asleep day after day, with no plans for the future but stubborn survival. It was easier in summer, but he’d made it through enough snow blizzards and harsh winters to think that not even death was interested in him.
He walked uphill from the cleave and zigzagged among the chestnut trees and hornbeams that covered the slope. Twigs of hazelnut trees caught in his pants and whipped his calves; under his feet, the carpet of leaves from the past winter was soft and moist, and here and there fresh tufts of grass and moss emerged from the brown undergrowth. He splashed in a small puddle, covering his boots in a new layer of dark mud, and grabbed the trunk of a young birch to perch himself and avoid slipping too much down the way.
It was just another day in an environment he’d learned to know by heart, but the more he moved, the more something sounded off.
He walked over a dead tree and frowned, listening to the world around him. His footsteps made little noise on the dead leaves, and he’d expected to hear the usual rustling of birds, the startled jump of a frog or maybe even a hare caught in their morning routine. But not today. Everything was silent, and he could hear his own breath.
The forest, today, was completely vacant: while he wasn’t trying to be entirely stealth, at this time of the day the birds should’ve been chirping and whistling all around him, and the squirrels bickering to get the best spot on the chestnut trees. Yet, not even the cawing of some quarrelsome crow could be heard in the distance.
Weird.
Wrong.
He tried to focus on what felt normal—the fertile scent of the ground under his boots, the fresh hint of green from the broken twigs and crushed leaves. It didn’t help. The smell of smoke veiled everything, and he fought to keep the memories at bay.
He made his way along the crest of the hills, and in a couple of hours the smoke became thick enough to point in a specific direction. Crouched under a rocky ledge and by a thin waterfall, Evandro l
ooked down into the valley.
He knew the place. He could still make out the shape of the crumbled mill by the placid stream of a river. There were ruined buildings, but those still smoking from the fire were smaller, their straw roofs devoured by the flames. Even the tiny gardens and orchards were blotches of dark grey and white, and in the shadows of the valley, a large tree was still burning low. Evandro squinted when his nerves twitched—was anyone still alive? Nobody, nothing moved in the devastation, not that he could see, at least.
He’d never visited the village, too small even to deserve such a definition, and he’d been happy enough with its inhabitants’ lack of interest in their surroundings. But now all that remained was a blackened halo punctuated with piles of debris, a black and white picture of a once living place. Evandro closed his eyes: he’d never known any of the people living there, not even by sight. But they were dead, or left with nothing. It was unfair, but there was nothing he could do, or have done about it. He was past the point of caring.
When he gave the burned circle one last look, though, a gust of wind perturbed the ashes. Evandro wouldn’t have spared a second thought to the whirlwind of black and grey that rolled across the plain, but something moved in the shadows.
Something white and silver, slender as the wing of a seagull.
Or of a butterfly.
The taste of his nightmare was heavy on his tongue. He could’ve recognized the Asares’ coat of arms everywhere, even after years of pushing the invaders to the back of his mind.
The echo of his past self came to life, and Evandro placed his hand to his side. Under his fingers there was only the horn of his knife’s handle, not the steel of his sword; still, he gritted his teeth.
Not only did they killed his king and destroyed the peace of his land; now they violated what was left of Epidalio’s peace.
Is this what you came to tell me tonight, Eliodoro? That it’s time for payback?
He searched for an answer--no, for the determination to act. Ashes, drier than those of the unfortunate village down the hill.
Evandro loosened the grip on his knife and stood up.
Not like that. It was pointless, there were no heirs to claim the throne, and he was nothing but the shell of a knight that had failed his last and most important task.
He walked away from the tragedy and tried to banish the memory from his eyes, and for some time it worked. He’d almost managed to convince himself that his real quest now was that for a decent spot to camp when the damp afternoon air stirred.
The wind carried along the distant clicking of hoofbeats on the paved road. Evandro, still scrambling on the hill’s top, crouched behind a standing stone and counted.
How many? Two--no, more. Three or four, but one was ahead of the others. He brushed a lock behind his ear and listened more closely. Right-hind, right-fore; pause, left-hind, left fore. Horses at walk, properly shod with thick shoes. Mounted, all of them.
Before the party appeared after the turn at the bottom of his field of vision, Evandro knew what to expect: four horsemen, fully clad in armor and chainmail. Over it, the white tabard of the Asares, the same silk of the flying banners they were carrying.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Little time to think: fighting them was suicide, and no matter how often Evandro had considered the idea in his earlier hermit days, it was not an option at the moment. Not with a handful of wooden arrows and a pathetic hunting knife.
The four horsemen approached on the road.
Evandro closed his eyes. He didn’t care, right? He could simply turn around and go back to his woods and his life. He was a ghost, and ghosts don’t change.
But the memory of Eliodoro visiting his sleep was still too fresh. He couldn’t ignore the signs anymore, even if it was like poking at an old wound.
The soldiers were the answer to a question he didn’t even dare to ask.
What’s happening? To Epidalio, to me?
He looked down the slope, and the sun glistened on the shining armor, on the mane of their steeds.
Things happened for a reason. Soldiers, too.
And they have answers. Quick answers, more than going around and asking commoners.
Tailing them was his best chance. If they were to attack another village, he could warn the poor people before the disaster. Further down the road, some five miles or so, a landslide from the spring storms blocked the road--he’d seen it weeks ago, following a wounded wild boar, and clearly the Asares men had no idea. Or they wouldn’t be walking straight into it.
Evandro rolled from his shelter and hurried through the bushes, checking the road every now and then not to lose sight of the knights.
His heart raced, and he couldn’t tell if it was for the anger burning through him for the Asares’ past and present wrongdoings, or for the sheer excitement of being active again. A real chase, not just the ambush to get his next meal.
Eliodoro's smile flashed through his memory. His black hair, his eyes crinkling at the corners with humor. The last wink he’d given him before disappearing behind that door and falling to an anonymous soldier’s sword.
Evandro shook his head, and the leap in his chest made his reflexes stagger.
Caught in a protruding root, he stumbled and cursed out loud. Whirling his arms around served no purpose but to unbalance him even further toward the slope.
With no time to think, he surrendered to the pull of gravity. His ankle twisted the wrong way and he crashed to his back with a grunt, falling unceremoniously down the hill.
Branches slapped him across the face, and handfuls of dirt and leaves filled his mouth; no matter how much he tried to fumble for a handhold, all he could do was slow down his fall and turn his rolling into an ungraceful slide. All made more interesting by the scatter of arrows he left on the hill and the painful poking of his bow in his side.
He stopped with his back against a tree trunk with a loud oof that turned the last of his hopes for stealth to dust. Evandro gasped and panted, collapsing to his side with a shaky arm wrapped around his waist.
Alright, time for a plan B, he thought. His whole face felt numb, his body throbbed with countless scratches and bruises.
The road was just some dozen feet away, and the knights were slowing down, looking right in his direction.
Evandro snarled and slowly pushed himself to his feet. His ankle felt wrong, but after some rolling of his foot he declared it still in one piece and tried to put some of his weight on it. Predictably enough, it hurt like hell, but it cooperated enough to allow him to limp for the rest of the slope.
The bannerman, riding at the head of the group, stopped and raised her fist. To her signal, his three companions pulled the reins and placed their hands on their swords.
“You there! Stop, in the name of the Queen!”
Evandro bit the tip of his tongue to swallow a litany of furious replies and kept his eyes low. He knew he was dead to the world, and he’d neglected himself enough to look nothing more than a ragged vagabond with a scruffy beard and patched clothes.
But I don’t trust my eyes enough for this.
He diligently held his hands up and stood in the middle of the road.
“Easy there, I’m un…unarmed”, he rasped. Was that his voice? It had been an age since he’d spoken with anyone, and he sounded strange to his own ears. Rough, broken--just like him.
“What are you doing here, traveler? We were informed of no settlements in this part of the forest,” the supposed captain said. Under her plumed helmet, her square face was hard and unfriendly. “Speak now!”
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Evandro said without looking her in the eye. The rest of the company shuffled behind her. “I just… ah!” he gasped when his ankle gave a painful throb.
“If you’re looking for help then you’re in the wrong place. We’re…”
“No, no, I’m fine. I was just wondering--you’re on a mission, right? And I know these woods better than any of yo
u. No offense,” he added in a rushed growl. The captain shrugged.
“None taken. Were you expecting us?”
“Not exactly, I was more like looking for you. And I’d like to assist you, if you need the help of…”
“If you know nothing about the lost princess, then get out of our way!” one of the other soldiers barked from the rear. “We’ve met enough uncooperative subjects already.”
You… lost a princess? Thank you for telling me, then.
He knew little of the Asares’ spawn, only that she was said to be the force behind the demise of the Laskaris family. And for Evandro this was enough to paint her as her worst enemy.
“Oh, I… I didn’t know,” he said. Surprise was blatant in his tone, and he did nothing to hide it. “I… er, I lived on my own for quite some time now, and news of this never reached the… the forest, let’s say.”
“Whatever, you beggar. You sound particularly useless to our cause, so stop wasting our time.” The captain kicked her horse’s sides and trotted on, but Evandro was quick to limp in front of the beast.
Trample me if you must, but you won’t get rid of me so easily, he thought in a blaze of white-hot rage. He hoped his beard hid his grimace and looked at his boots.
“But you said so yourself: you don’t know this part of the forest, right?”
“Technically no,” one other soldier said in a deep, slow voice. “We just said we didn’t know there were people in this…”
“You need a guide,” Evandro pressed on. He was ready to seize the horse’s reins to keep the patrol in place.
You’re going after the person who destroyed all that I held dear. You may not know it, but you’re giving me the chance to get a revenge I had never planned.
The captain snarled and slammed the pole of her banner on the road.
“Get out of our way, stranger, or I’ll consider you as one of those who crossed the Asares’ rule.” She squared her jaws and wrinkled her nose. “You don’t want to suffer their same fate” A flick of her heels, and the horse took a step forward.
“But I’m here to cooperate!” Evandro said. His voice sounded louder now, and it didn’t catch in his throat anymore. He followed the horses down the road, ignoring the soldiers’ glares.
The Other Side of Magic Page 8